


Devorare

by lodgedinmythoughts



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Blood and Violence, But the worst happens offpage, Dark, First Dates, Halloween, Horror, Not A Happy Ending, Sexual Content, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-14 01:59:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16483922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lodgedinmythoughts/pseuds/lodgedinmythoughts
Summary: He still smiles and laughs and keeps up all necessary appearances as you make conversation, but now, with his piercing eyes fastened on you and only you, you sense something deeper in there, lurking, and it sends a chill down your spine.There’s more to Steve Rogers than you thought.





	Devorare

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something in the spirit of Halloween and raced to get this done before the night was over. I wanted to tag it more but, ya know, spoilers. Might add more tags later, who knows. I'll also probably make some minor edits here and there since I didn't get as much time as I'd have liked to look over it. For now, I just wanted to get this out there. Happy Halloween. O:-)

It’s three minutes before eight and the deluge is still coming down strong. The puddles splash against your shoes, sending splatters of cold water to land on your exposed feet and seep through the tiny crevices between skin and patent leather. The liquid pools in the soles of your heels, but the subsequent squishing sound is negligible in the midst of the downpour.

With the storm dominating your senses, you’re left without even the presence of mind to be meticulous about where you step, focused squarely instead on reaching shelter up ahead. The whistling wind whips around your hair as you fight to close the waist of your trench coat, and the umbrella doesn’t do much at all to shield you from the sting of the sideways rain, but it’s of lesser concern when you at last reach the sizable expanse of the awning.

“Evening, miss,” the doorman says with a nod your way.

He pulls the door open smoothly with his gloved hand, but you lower to a slight crouch and balance on one foot as you slip off your left heel and shake it upside down, the small collection of rainwater trickling down to hit the concrete with indiscernible plops. There’s no graceful way to go about it and you’d rather not have the doorman privy to it, but of all the things in the world, you think, it’s hardly the worst thing to bear witness to.

“Sorry.” You offer a sheepish smile and switch feet, emptying your other shoe as quickly and efficiently as you can manage.

“Unpleasant night, isn’t it?” is his gracious response.

“Oh, I don’t know,” you say as you slip the heel back on. “I actually think it’s kind of beautiful, isn’t it?”

He dips his head, polite and perfunctory. “Of course, miss.”

After a light shake of your umbrella, you cross the threshold, smoothing your hair down as you go. “Thank you so much. Have a good night.”

He tips his hat, you’re inside, and the sounds of the storm are soon behind you.

The art deco lobby is warm, in color and in temperature. Hanging from the high ceiling are glass chandeliers and artfully laid out under them are fashionable high-backed sofas and armchairs. Several immaculately-dressed guests lounge in them, the paired ones chatting quietly while the solitary ones pore over nondescript papers. Stretched out at the far end of the wall is the mahogany reception desk.

The speckled beige of the maze-patterned marble floor gleams and gives way with every click of your heels. You’ve straightened yourself out as best as you could, and it’s with a tiny thrill of the unknown that you venture deeper into the lobby.

You’re searching, searching, searching for any sign of a dirty blond head that may seem familiar, and when you finally spot it, your heart gives way to a flutter. He came early.

Your footsteps must alert him of your presence because as you draw near, he turns his head. He’s sitting with his back to you, fiddling with his phone, but when he sees you, his lips part and he rises, adjusting his suit jacket as he does so. He’s in a navy suit, unbuttoned, no tie, and a light blue dress shirt. The cut flatters him all too well.

When he says your name, it comes out as a slight question even though you know he knows it’s you whom he met at that fundraiser gala a week ago.

You smile shyly and, just to reciprocate, say, “Yeah. Steve?”

His laugh is nervous. “Yeah. Uh—”

For a moment, he stands frozen like he’s fumbling internally before finally, he reaches out for a hug. You return his embrace, noting the clean scent of his cologne and how he feels so sturdy and strong around you, however innocent his touch is.

“How are you?” he asks.

“Good, how are you?”

“I’m good.”

When you pull away, his gaze flickers down your form to where your pale pink chiffon cocktail dress peeks out from beneath your coat. He makes sure not to have his eyes linger longer than is appropriate. They’re just as blue and thoughtful as you remember.

“You look nice,” you tell him. An understatement.

“Thanks, so, uh, so do you.” He’s so handsome, so nervous—so human. “So, shall we?”

He holds his arm out and you can’t help but wonder at that before hooking your arm through his. You didn’t think people did that much anymore.

Together, you check your coat and umbrella at the desk and make your way to the restaurant beyond the corridor. It’s excellent, supposedly, but that’s not something you’re concerned a great deal about.

Steve helps you into your seat and after ordering some wine, you occupy yourselves by perusing the menu.

“It’s real nasty out there, isn’t it?” he says.

“Oh, completely. But we haven’t been getting the brunt of it, thankfully.”

“Yeah, I’m glad the hurricane’s on its way out. I still feel bad, though, that you had to trek all the way out here in the storm. We could’ve chosen another day.”

“Oh, it’s not like I was out there the whole time. And I don’t live too far. I already told you, I don’t mind.” You give him a reassuring smile. He nods, relaxing in his seat by just the tiniest amount. “Besides, you had to come out here, too.”

“Oh, uh, actually, I’ve been here for a while. I was visiting an old friend who’s staying here.”

“Oh.” A half-statement, half-question.

“Yeah, we haven’t seen each other in a while, so when she mentioned she was in town, I couldn’t pass it up.”

She.

You don’t miss the way his eyes light up when he mentions her, that extra warmth to his cheeks, however subtle in the dim lighting.

Against all reason, your stomach hollows out and your saliva is thick in your mouth as you nod. “I totally know how it is. So, have you been here before? I never have,” you say, returning to your menu.

He peers up from his own. “Uh, no, I haven’t. To be honest, it’s…ah, never mind.”

Naturally, your curiosity is piqued. “What?”

He gives a stiff shrug. “I was just going to say it’s…not really my…scene. I just wanted to impress you.” He tops it off with a sheepish look.

You immediately lower your menu and the rush of air from the movement hardly makes a ruffle in the thick cloth of his napkin. “Oh, thank goodness. I thought I was the only one who felt completely out of place here.”

His expression is one of immense relief. “Oh, God, no. If anything, you look like you fit right in.”

“Well, you’re one to talk.” Your features remain light, your smile kind. You’re not trying to be coy, and based on the closed-lip smile slowly edging its way onto Steve’s lips, he likes it.

Your drinks soon arrive and you place your order, and when the food comes, the only thing to occupy yourself with is an expensive meal and even richer company.

“So, do you have any siblings?” you ask at one point.

He sets his wine down and you’re hard pressed not to stare at the way his tongue swipes over his plump bottom lip to catch the last drop of crimson. “No. No, just me. I’ve been on my own a while, actually. My dad, he, uh, he died before I was born and my mom died when I was eighteen.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

He dips his head. “Thank you. It was hard goin’ for a long time, being on my own, but…here I am.”

“Well, it really takes a strong person to do that.”

“Well,” he says and looks down, chuckling. “You may be giving me entirely too much credit there. You see, I really wouldn’t’ve made it without my best friend. Bucky. He wasn’t afraid to knock some sense into me whenever I was being a stubborn ass and refused help. Which was most of the time.” He shakes his head ruefully, gaze fixed on the white tablecloth. “I was just going through some things.”

“You’re only human. But your friend sounds like a keeper.”

He simply nods. “Now, how ’bout you? Do you have any siblings? Annoying best friends to contend with?”

You pierce your veal with your fork. “No. No siblings, no annoying best friend, I’m afraid. I’m a bit of a lone wolf.”

If he takes any sort of issue with that, he doesn’t show it. “Are your parents still around here? I know you said you moved around a lot.”

“I did, yeah, but no, my parents aren’t here. To be honest, I don’t know where they are. I lost touch with them a while ago.”

His eyebrows raise in a flash of surprise. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Was it a falling out?” You nod. “I imagine that’s pretty rough. Well, hey, if you’re ever in need of someone to talk to…or just hang out with, I mean, I know we just met a week ago and it’s pretty presumptuous, but…everyone starts out as a stranger, right?” That soft, boyish tilt of his mouth stirs something deep inside you.

You find yourself nodding. “Yeah. It does get real easy to feel lonely.”

You and he talk some more and you learn that he was in the army, that he worked at the VA with a friend for a couple of years after, and that he currently teaches art at a high school in Brooklyn, among other odd jobs. You already feel at such ease with him, but you’re powerless to stop that visceral feeling of being punched in the gut every time those intelligent eyes lock with yours.

When you first met, he was all endearing glances and shy smiles. It should’ve taken you by more surprise how someone who looked like him could be anything but confident, but you’d known enough men to know that wasn’t always how it worked.

Steve, though…Steve was something else. Authentic and sincere, no air of pretense, no veneer meticulously put in place to aid that guileless charm. You liked to think you had a certain knack for knowing these things, and he struck you as nothing but _good._

He had flaws, of course, just as any man. But what pours from his every vein in vast waves as he sits across from you now is predominantly—unquestionably—light.

Just the kind of flame the moth inside of you is drawn to.

Over the course of dinner, however, you notice his eyes gradually turn darker, his gaze more direct, more daring. His tongue lingers now when it runs over his bottom lip, as though he knows you like it. His smiles have a deliberately flirty note to them. He’s playing a game, and you know it’s because you’ve shown interest right back.

The meal is no doubt satiating any hunger he had before, but as you peer into the depths beyond those eyes barely ringed with blue, you can see it’s another kind of hunger he possesses now. He’s the predator and you’re the prey, and he wants nothing more than to devour you whole.

It makes you shift in your seat.

He still smiles and laughs and keeps up all necessary appearances as you make conversation, but now, with his piercing eyes fastened on you and only you, you sense something deeper in there, lurking, and it sends a chill down your spine.

There’s more to Steve Rogers than you thought.

After dinner, it’s the typical uncertainty and back and forth of what to do next, if anything at all, until you sense the moment he drops all pretenses, and so you drop yours. Hand in hand, you leave the hotel and delve underground for the subway, after which you practically run through the still-raging storm under a shared umbrella to the apartment he shares with his friends, both of whom he assures you are out for the night.

He takes your coat, gently shaking it free of raindrops onto the door mat before peeling off his suit jacket. He asks if you’d like something to drink, but you say no and after a confirmatory “you sure?”, he ventures to the kitchen to pour a little nightcap for himself. Meanwhile, you stay in the living room illuminated by soft lamplight and take in the cozy furniture, the books lying around, the artwork on the walls.

When Steve comes back with a drink in hand, you’re studying an oil painting of a cityscape at night. “You painted this?”

“How’d you guess?” He has one hand in his pocket, his stance casual.

“I had a feeling.”

He watches you stroll across the room as you study the different paintings. “You know, I feel pretty rude holding a drink in my hand when you’re not.”

“Trying to get me drunk?”

He looks taken aback at first, unsure of how to interpret the quip, but you saunter over to him before he can offer the noble defense you know is coming. You slip the tumbler in his hand into yours and bring it to your lips, eyes never leaving his. The amber liquid burns on the way down.

He watches steadily, pupils eating up the irises. You hold the glass out for him to take and he does so, but not without a heavy lingering glance at your mouth. You turn around to hide your smirk and stroll away before ending up in front of a long accent table on which a cluster of framed photos are set out. Behind you is a shuffling noise and you don’t have to turn around to know he’s readjusting the throw pillows and blanket on the couch.

Through the reflection of the glass in the frames, you can see Steve moving to a small speaker to hook up his music. Soon an old blues song you’re wholly unfamiliar with is filtering softly through the room.

“I swear this isn’t some kind of weird move; I just really like blues music,” he says and continues his shuffling as you offer a warm chuckle.

Your eyes glaze over snapshots of several guys with their arms around each other’s shoulders, shots of Steve and his friends on miscellaneous outdoor adventures, until eventually, they land on two photos in particular.

In the first one, a beautiful brunette sits on the edge of some sort of stage and is leaned forward with her arms casually wrapped around the shoulders of Steve, who’s perched on a chair in front of her. They’re in army fatigues, relaxed grins lighting up their faces.

There’s a marked twitch in your cheek. You try to control your breathing that grows heavier by the second as your focus shifts to the next photo. In it, Steve is holding some sort of art set—some brushes and oils, maybe—and right next to him, held firmly at his side is none other than the woman from the first photograph. They’re in civilian clothing this time but reeking all the same of that sickening familiarity, and you know she’s the old friend he mentioned before, the one he’d been visiting before meeting you.

She’s the one who made his eyes light up. She’s the one who had him settling for a night out with you because he couldn’t have _her_.

Your chest rises and falls with rapid movements. You can’t see straight. There’s a heavy ringing in your ear and the world is spinning and all of a sudden, the light behind you dims and flickers once, twice, and the music skips.

“Oh,” Steve says reflexively.

Then the light goes out entirely and the room is swept into darkness, but the sorrowful, haunting melody of the song continues.

“Whoa.” Steve moves swiftly. Then there’s the click of the lamp’s chain as he tugs it to get the light back on. Nothing. “Sometimes the power does this. Must be the storm. Kinda strange, though, how it’s just the lamp.”

Then the overhead light comes on, a stark contrast to the intimate glow from the lamp. You blink rapidly, regaining your bearings, and look over at Steve, who stands along the other wall with his hand on the light switch.

You swallow. “That’s ok. You can change the bulb if you want. I don’t mind.”

He waves it off politely. “It’s not that big a deal.”

“Really. I don’t mind.”

He looks like he’s about to argue, but then decides against it. “Alright. It’ll just take a second.”

“No problem.” You give him a benign closed-lip smile.

He sets his glass down on a side table before disappearing into the kitchen, though his voice wafts into the living room. “It’s a good thing Peggy makes us keep extras around. Peggy—she’s, uh, she’s my friend.”

Your nostrils flare. Peggy. She’s the one in the photographs. You just know it. “You should always have extras.”

“I know. Sometimes we misplace them and get busy and just forget, though. Luckily, Peggy was always good at that kind of stuff.”

Your breaths are coming out faster now.

“She actually used to live here, too, and I’m pretty sure she’s the one who picked up these lightbulbs.” Then there’s a pause. A slight chuckle. “Sorry. I’m acting like you know her.”

But you’re already seeing red.

Because you’ve just learned that she used to live there. Under the same roof. With him.

It takes nothing to send the tumbler sitting on the table shattering into pieces.

And shatter it does. Like the finest crystal made of nothing, the cup explodes, sending shards of glass flying everywhere.

“Holy—” Steve comes running into the room, expression marked with shock and confusion, but by the time he arrives, you’ve already reached the other side of the room where the cup once sat fully intact and you’re kneeling on the floor, playing at picking up the pieces.

“Sorry,” you let out in a rush. “I was—I knocked over the glass with my hand—”

“Hey, it’s ok, you don’t have to clean it up; I don’t want you to cut yourself.” He swiftly crouches down as though to inspect the damage, the tiny shards crinkling under his shoes with every careful step, and gently pries your hands away from the glass, pulling you back up.

Your mouth opens and shuts like you’re at a loss for words and you imagine how flustered you must look. “Sorry—sorry, it was an accident—I—”

“Hey, listen, don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal.” His hands are running softly but firmly over your arms in an effort to calm you down like you’re a frightened little rabbit, and the look on his face says the contrary to his words. He looks down at the mess all over the floor, noting the way some of the shards reach the other end of the room. “You said you knocked it over with your hand?”

You do nothing but nod.

A dip forms between his brows and when he speaks, it’s more as though he’s talking to himself. “How did the shards get so far? I swear it…sounded like it exploded or…something.” His speech tapers off at the end like he’s trying to talk himself out of it.

His hands are still on your upper arms, so you grasp his wrists. “I’ll help you clean it up.”

“Really, you don’t—”

“Steve. I’ll help clean it up.”

He studies your firm expression. Then nods. His grip eases up off your arms and soon you both have brooms and dust pans in your hands as you start sweeping.

But this isn’t part of the plan, so you pretend to clean up while Steve crouches to fill up the dust pan, his back to you. With dull movements, you sweep the broom back and forth across the hardwood just for the noise, for the show of it all, but your attention is on the man in front of you and the piece of glass rising silently from the floor and through the air, just under his hand where he can’t see, to nick him sharply on the palm.

“Ow! Fuck.” He drops his tools and inspects his right palm, where a trickle of blood slithers down the flesh in a slanted path.

Your robotic movements cease. “I’ll help you clean that up.”

He twists his neck toward you, looking disconcerted, and takes in the way you’re simply standing there at a small distance, observing. “It’s ok.”

“Steve.” You drop the broom and pull him up by his other hand. “I’ll help you clean it up.”

The exchange is eerily reminiscent of the one that played out mere minutes ago. He eyes you, still looking deeply unnerved, and a small part of you thinks, _good_. He’s got some semblance of self-preservation inside of him.

You turn the music off for him after he mentions it to you and lead him to the kitchen when you ask for the first aid supplies. You get to work cleaning up the wound before finishing with a bandage to the area. “Hope it didn’t sting too much,” you say with a pat to his hand.

“Could’ve been worse,” he says. “Took me by surprise, mostly. Guess I should’ve watched where I was sweeping. Thanks for this.”

Slowly, you lift his palm and press a lingering kiss right next to the band-aid, your eyes again never leaving his. You want the heat in his expression from earlier in the evening to return in full force.

It’s hesitant in its return, but you can see the spark.

Your gaze falls to his slightly parted lips to let your intention be known, and he makes no objections as you carefully lean in and brush his lips with yours.

The kiss is shy and tentative at first, but you can feel how he returns it, lips fully latching onto yours within seconds. The kiss grows deeper, more eager, and in no time, you’re matching each other in heated desire.

Hands gripping your waist, he steps away from the counter and walks you backward till your back hits the refrigerator with a dull thud. He has you caged in, trapped, his larger frame enveloping your senses as he assaults your mouth and roams his hands across your body, as though no longer willing to hold back. At one point, he traps your wrists in his hands and holds them against the fridge so you can’t touch him, all the while continuing his erotic assault on your body, now the complete opposite of shy. It’s an exhilarating match of tongues and lips between you two, and it’s a game you’re all too willing to play.

Moaning breathily, you allow yourself to cave in to the delectable feeling of being dominated and overpowered for just a second before you’re slipping your wrists out of his tight grip with an odd ease that would otherwise go noticed by your companion if not for those hazy thoughts currently fogging up his mind, the ones more preoccupied with baser, carnal urges.

Before he can think to ensnare you once again, you spin the pair of you with a fluid, effortless movement and pin him against the hard surface, his wrists now locked in your tight grip. That knocks him out of his stupor a bit and he opens his eyes to find yours already open, watching him darkly, silently, a victorious smirk edging at your lips. His heavy-lidded gaze roams over your face and he lets out a tiny breathy laugh, still glazed over with lust.

He doesn’t try to escape your grip, though you imagine a lesser man might. Instead, he plays the game and allows you to maintain your hold on him. Convenient for him, for he’d find if he did attempt such a thing, an escape would not be so easy.

You laugh along with him and it comes out low, curious. Then, without any compunction, you release your grasp around one wrist and reach down to palm him through his trousers, where you feel him hard and heavy and waiting. His breath hitches in surprise, surely not having expected you to be so bold, but he makes no move to stop you.

You lick your lips, never ceasing eye contact. “Can I have you?”

His voice is breathy; he takes a moment to answer. “I don’t…I don’t usually do this. Just so you know. Or ever. You know, bring girls home after the first date. Do—this.”

“Fuck,” you easily supply for him, then let a feline smile take over your lips. “It’s ok. There’s a first time for everything.”

You work to ease his qualms with soft open-mouthed kisses against his neck, fully aware of how stiff his body is against yours as though at war with himself. Where’s the bold man from before? Where’s the man who fucked you with his eyes over a candlelit dinner, silently promised you a host of sinful pleasures?

You can’t end this night without a little fun on your end, so with one hand still clasped around his wrist, you stroke him over his pants and continue to ply him with wet, sensual kisses, eventually working back up to his lips. He groans into your mouth and you relish the sound, the vibration, but then he cups your cheek and attempts to speak through the barrage of kisses.

“I—mm—I…I think we need to take this elsewhere.”

You pause then, draw back to look at him. His firm chest is heaving, every movement rocking against you, and his eyes are blown with lust. He’s perfect, an unmarred masterpiece. You flash your teeth. “Good idea.”

In no time, you’re down the hall and in his bedroom and pinned beneath him as he attacks you with those skillful hands and lips. You revel in his firmness, the feel of his muscles underneath your palms, running your hands as heavily across his body as he does yours. It should be nothing out of the ordinary for a man like him to be able to subdue you with brute strength alone, but this is the first time you’ve gotten such an intoxicating thrill from it.

You hook one leg around his waist, pressing him flush against you, and delight in the painfully hard evidence of his arousal prodding you low on your belly. His kisses are relentless, his mouth eager in the give and take. While he lavishes the column of your neck with blissful attention, you hastily unbutton his shirt, tugging the tail out from the waist of his pants and pulling the sleeves off his arms with help from him so that the broad expanse of his chest is fully bared to you.

Propped up on his forearms, he watches from above as you run your hands over the hard planes of his chest and abdomen, and he’s unable to mask the slight shiver at your touch, which transitions from basking and unmitigated enthusiasm at the sheer masculinity before you to more purposeful, delicate, teasing strokes.

“I wanna see you,” he says, heavily caressing your hip over your dress.

You lean up to plant a wet kiss on his mouth. “Not till I get to see you first.”

He says nothing, simply watches with bated breath as you unbuckle his belt, unzip the fly of his slacks. With some maneuvering from him, his pants come off, leaving him in nothing but dark navy boxer briefs. A sizable bulge protrudes from the front.

“My, my,” you tell him. “You’ve been packing some serious heat, Steve.”

He doesn’t answer, his hand now running down your side, down your thigh where your dress has ridden up. He kneads the flesh.

You prop yourself up on one elbow so you’re closer to his face and thread your fingers through his hair before coming to rest on the nape of his neck. You give him another kiss and whisper against his lips, “Can I have you?”

His breath mingles with yours when he chuckles. “Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

Your chest blooms with pure elation.

He doesn’t expect it when you toss him onto his back with little effort. You’re above him now, straddling his hips, the hem of your chiffon dress pooling across his abs. With nothing between you but your lace underwear and his boxer briefs, you settle onto the thick, hard line of his obscured length and glide back and forth, rubbing firmly against the clothed erection as it twitches heavily beneath you.

You moan, lost in the pleasure from the sweet friction, as Steve watches with rapt attention, the sound of his pants music to your ears. He grips your hips, guiding your movements for a while, before you pry his hands off and bring them up to palm your breasts.

You come just like that, gasping and writhing above him. He squeezes your breasts and you allow his hands to fall out from beneath your grip to run up and down your sides as you ride the high, Steve’s hips arching up to dig his blunt arousal further into you, both to aid you in your release and to seek his own pleasure. Only temporarily sated, you fall forward and inch up his body with the manner of a lazy, relaxed kitten. Your cunt is still throbbing and you want him inside you, but for now, you think you’ll bask in this.

Outside, the storm rages on. You’re shielded in the charcoal atmosphere of his bedroom, the only sources of light the distant glow from the living room and the ominous flashes of lightning that herald the rolling cracks of thunder. Head tilted, you gaze down at Steve.

He’s unlike any man you’ve known, evokes feelings in you so foreign you’re not sure what to do with them.

In the end, it takes no time at all to make up your mind. With a rousing rush of heady anticipation flowing through your veins, you decide you want the man beneath you wholly and completely in a way you’ve never had before.

You kiss him, slowly, sensually, and bite his bottom lip, tugging it between your teeth as you pull away.

The rain batters down against the brick of the building. Another streak of lightning flashes across the night sky—you lock eyes—

And his breath catches in his throat.

“What the fuck—”

You remain crouched over him as he backs up against the headboard in a futile effort to escape. Earlier in the evening, he appeared unsettled, unable to place exactly what was off, before eventually discarding those thoughts. Now, the expression painted across those Adonis-like features is one of pure, unadulterated terror.

Thunder booms in the background as you tilt your head again, the picture of a curious, innocent woman, but your voice comes out too cloying, too sickly sweet. “What’s wrong, Steve?”

“Holy—fuck—” He risks an escape then, knocking you off of him with little care. You allow him to do so and topple onto your hands and knees on the bed, hair obscuring your face as he makes a break for it, but with a mere twitch of your head, the door slams shut just before he can get to it. It’s locked, and the lock won’t give, even as Steve rattles it with repeated frantic attempts.

You come upright to your knees, twist your neck to look in the mirror across from the bed, and sigh.

Your eyes are a glowing yellow, malevolent and inhuman.

You thought you had a lid on it—you always do—but it appears Steve makes you lose control.

“Steve,” you tell him with the tone of a long-suffering mother of young children as he attempts to bash the door down with his shoulder, “don’t do that.”

He’s grunting harshly, breathing harshly, murmuring _shit shit shit_ as he tries with all his might to escape. You slide off the bed casually, slowly drawing closer with eerie, preternatural grace and the patience of someone who has all the time in the world. Your bare feet make nary a thump against the hardwood.

Steve whips around, grabs a hefty trophy from the nearby dresser, brandishes it. “Who are you?” His low voice is threatening and he’s shifting on his feet, every nerve alive and alert. You can practically hear his heart thundering dangerously under his ribcage, hear the rush of blood through his veins.

You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly and, with it, you know he’s swallowing down the question he doesn’t dare face.

 _What_ are you?

He could try to overpower you with the limited force of his human strength like the others, but you can tell he already knows it’d be useless.

You don’t stop the ugly smirk that finds its way onto your mouth. He’s wise, this one.

“I try,” you tell him. “I try so _hard_ to maintain this appearance. But it gets so hard, Steve. It gets so hard when I’m burdened with this vessel of dull meat.” His chest heaves with every step you take. He backs himself up against the door. “It’s fun fooling you humans, though. I’m just a pathetic girl, a hole to fill, a hole to fuck—” He gulps, near trembling in fear as you stop one foot in front of him. “But no, Steve. I’m not. _You’re_ the cock I fuck. You’re the one who feeds me.”

You can tell by the way his eyes widen imperceptibly that he thinks he knows what you are.

“No, Steve,” you hiss out. “I’m nothing as _dull_ as a succubus. I don’t have to fuck to feed off of your kind. I choose to. I _like_ it.”

You’re right up against him now, tracing his jaw with your finger, his lips with your glowing eyes. He’s stock-still, save for the uneven movements of his chest.

Your lips twist into a cruel parody of a smile. “You didn’t think I’d take your soul before I got a good fuck out of it, did you?” Steve is strong but oh, so pliable beneath your hands. You run your hands down his chest. “Hm. You humans scare all too easily. It’s almost not even fun anymore.”

With that, you step back until there’s a few feet between you. Behind Steve is the nearly imperceptible _click_ of the lock. He hears it, too, knows it’s unlocked, knows you did it, knows it’s just part of the game—but in a flurry of movement, he’s wrestling the door open and out of the room within a second.

You follow at an unconcerned pace as he races down the hall, through the apartment, still in his boxer briefs and nearly losing his balance once or twice. You make sure to silence his voice, whether he knows it or not, so there’s no yelling emanating from the apartment, and keep the front door sealed shut, leaving no chance of escape, no matter how many attempts.

The lights flicker erratically as you pass; the wind howls outside. As you walk through the remains of the shattered tumbler from before, your eyes alight on the photos of Steve and Peggy, arms around each other, smiling, and with a low, inhuman growl, you send the glass inside the frames cracking till the images are fractured and distorted, the smiling faces a mockery of joy.

Steve barely notices—he’s at the front door, yanking and tugging, mouth wide open in distress but no sound coming out. He raises a fist to the door to sound for help but he only gets one pound in before he’s ripped away and sent flying backward by an invisible force. He’s two inches away from loud impact when he’s stopped abruptly in midair and landing on the floor with a soft thud.

He tries to move but he can’t, and you can see it, can see the veins popping in his neck, his forehead as he struggles against it as though in the throes of sleep paralysis. He’s rendered immobile and speechless as you crawl up the length of his body, your joints cracking and contorted at an unnatural angle.

“I find I’ve grown very possessive of you, Stevie. I don’t take kindly to sharing. I want you all to myself.” You lower your face to his so that your nose is flush against his cheek and inhale deeply. He’s ripe with fear, utterly delicious.

With a slow, heavy stroke, you lick a path up the heated flesh. He trembles beneath you—he’s able to do that much—and his shallow breaths warm your skin, bring you to life.

In a whisper, you ask, “Can I have you?”

He’s making strangled noises, trying desperately to get an ounce of sound out from his vocal cords, but he can do nothing but stare, wide eyes once ringed with blue now rimmed with red.

“I was going to just move on to the next one after this. It’s what I’ve always done. But you…you’re the first one to have me considering differently. I’ve never been so attached to any of the others as I am to you, Stevie. I think a life together away from this realm and its disgusting parasites could be quite lovely, don’t you? Oh, but don’t worry, you’re not like the rest of these pathetic creatures, Stevie, darling, no. You’re more. You’re _pretty_. So, what do you say? It’d be just you and me. Forever. Have you ever wanted to find out how long eternity is?”

Tears are leaking out of his eyes now and he’s helpless to stop them.

“But you have to come willingly, Stevie. They all do.”

His eyes have darted to his right, are fixed on something to the side of his head, and it’s when you follow his gaze that you see your left arm, once human in appearance, has now revealed itself in the form of a spindly, twisting limb, dark gray in color and serpentine in texture, ridged with black markings, and long black claws protruding from gnarled appendages.

You tsk at the sight. “This is why I need your soul, Stevie. You don’t want people to see what I really am, do you?”

He can’t look at you, can’t stand the sight of your unnatural eyes. You snarl, and your voice when you speak comes out as grotesque.

“ _Look at me_.” He doesn’t look, so you change tactics, your voice taking on that farce of sugar-sweet innocence again. “What can I do to make you say yes, Stevie?”

He doesn’t say anything, can’t say anything, and you need him to come willingly. So, you loosen the binds around his vocal cords and afford him his movement.

You witness the exact moment he realizes he can move again. Clasping his hands around your throat, he throws you to the floor and pins you down. You allow all of it, make no move to slice him open with your claws.

“Fucking _abomination_ ,” he grunts as he cuts off your airway. His face is red, his teeth bared, ferocity overtaking his fear. “Burn in hell, demon.”

With a small degree of concentration, you morph your arm back to its human form and feel your pupils shrink to the size of pinpricks, your eyes also human again. Clawing at his hands around your throat with your blunt nails, you wail, “Stop! Please, stop!”

His deadly grip loosens by just a fraction, his face faltering for a split second, and it’s enough to keep you going.

“Please! Help me, please!” You sound desperate, near the point of sobbing. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know what-what’s happening to me. I don’t know what—” You’re cut off by your own cries, an agonizing plea for help.

Steve keeps his hands around your throat but the grip is loosened considerably. Your name comes out of his mouth as a question.

“Yes, God, yes—Steve, I—you have to help me, get this thing out of me. Please, _please_.”

Looking utterly hopeless, he shakes his head absently, rapidly. “I don’t—I don’t know what—”

“You have to do as it says.”

He looks at you, wild, uncomprehending.

“You have to give up your soul. But don’t do it—just pretend—use it as bait and then kill it.”

“I can’t kill it, it’s too—”

“Then you have to give it what it wants.”

His eyes flit back and forth between yours, searching. When you see the realization, the horror dawning on his features, you grin.

“It was worth a shot.”

In the next second, you have him thrown off of you. He’s flat on his back, rendered immobile again. You crawl over to him as a loud clanging noise erupts from the kitchen. The knife block falls to the floor in the other room as you summon what you need. The large chef’s knife comes sliding into the living room and you grasp it with your hand. Your eyes are a luminous yellow again.

Steve’s voice, broken and desperate, comes out as a harsh rasp. “Please, God…”

“God can’t help you now, Steve.” You place the handle of the knife in his right hand, closing his fist around it almost lovingly. “Tell you what. You slit your throat right now and I won’t come after your best friend. Bucky, was it? If you don’t kill yourself for me right now, I’m gonna go after him and everyone else you care about. And I will find them. I’ll find _Peggy_. But not if you do this for me. Does that sound good? You can nod yes.”

You remain in his space when he doesn’t answer, nose barely brushing his chin. “Well, Stevie? I don’t think you wanna find out what’ll happen if you don’t say yes. I’ll even let you choose when you get to the other side. You can stay with me or…well, I’ll let you see the other option for yourself. So, what do you say? Your life for theirs?”

He’s shaking, forced to keep a tight grip around the knife’s handle. You grit your teeth in irritation, unwilling to wait any longer for a response when finally—

He nods. Shakily, but it’s there.

You sit back, a frisson of excitement running down your spine, and straddle his waist, taking in the view. “I’m gonna let you move now. But you remember what to do, ok, Stevie? You know how this has to end.”

He merely watches you, coming to terms with his inevitable death.

“I’m going to nod when it’s time.”

Silence. No movement.

Eyes flashing—you nod—

—and feel excruciating pain in your torso.

Looking down, you see the length of the large knife buried just above your belly button. It takes you a moment to register it, but then Steve digs the knife in further, twisting and slicing through your insides.

You’re shocked more than anything else, watching as the hot liquid seeps out of you, staining the pale pink of your dress with dark crimson.

Steve forcefully pushes you off of him and you land carelessly on your back as he backs away, fumbling for the door. You lie there with your hands on the hilt of the blade and watch as he rattles the doorknob uselessly.

Breath coming out in light pants, you tell him, “Oh, Steve. Why did you do that?”

He stops.

You smile.

. . .

At approximately 3:30 in the morning, two men come back to their apartment from a merry night out and find the door unlocked.

When they cautiously enter, they’re instantly sobered up by four things: the overhead light that’s still on, the shards of glass lying about, the sheer amount of blood on the floor, and lastly, the sight of their nearly nude friend lying face first on the floor, eyes still open and neck bent at an unnatural angle.

It’s a flurry of cursing and swearing and general loss of composure. The men can’t breathe, can’t even _look_ , and the drinks they consumed earlier in the night threaten to come up when one of them dares to roll their friend over in the pool of blood to find a gaping hole in his chest, right where his heart should be.

His neck is snapped, and his heart is gone.

Beside his body is a chef’s knife, bloody, so bloody.

The cops are called, the weeks and months pass, but the bewildered, grieving friends can’t find any closure. The DNA all over the grisly scene isn’t a match with anyone.

Their friend is gone, the perpetrator is gone, and little do they know, so is his mortal soul.

. . .

You step out of the town car and smooth down your suit, admiring the architecture of the concert hall as you open the door for your date for the evening. This time, you’re a tall, svelte man.

Flashing her your most charming smile, you offer your arm.

“Shall we?”

**Author's Note:**

> devorare (Latin): to devour, consume


End file.
